


Such Haunting Melodies

by geckoholic



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Canon, Rape, Reunion Sex, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: He's distantly aware that Foxx just bit him, but it seems in character, oddly, for him to want to leave a lasting mark. A reminder. A token of ownership.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Eduardo L. Fox/Ash Lynx
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgentCoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/gifts).



> Guess who started three fics for you and then wrote this fucker over the weekend? Yes. This girl. I should have just started with a Vampire AU, lol. I hope you'll like it! 
> 
> Beta-read by ficnonnie. Thank you very much! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "My Dark Disquiet" by Poets Of The Fall.

The sounds of bare flesh slapping against bare flesh are sickeningly familiar, and they're all Ash can focus on. It's easier than allowing himself to acknowledge the relentless precision of Foxx's thrusts, slamming into Ash in a way that his body can't ignore and that has resulted in a strong and dripping erection. The latter hasn't gone unnoticed, of course; Foxx's hand is on Ash's cock by now, ceaselessly cooing about how much of a slut Ash is, how much he must be loving this, how good Foxx is going to fuck him and how often he's going to make Ash come before they're done. 

None of that is altogether unfamiliar, and yet there's something different about Foxx. Something worse. Something cheerfully sadistic. He seems to derive most of his pleasure not from pure physical sensations of getting his dick wet, but from the unwilling, involuntary reactions he's drawing from Ash's body while he's got him bent over, face pressed to the dirty concrete, jeans and underwear pushed down to his ankles and serving as an additional restraint, ass in the air, cock straining upwards so it's smearing the hem of his shirt with precome on every thrust. Were this consensual, he could be called a good lover, caring, selfless, focused on his partner's pleasure. But it's not consensual, it very much isn't, and they both know that. They both know how much worse the aftermath is going to be for Ash due to that very fact, trying to reconcile the brutality of the assault with the lingering tingle in his veins from forced orgasms, his nervous system unable to separate the physical pleasure and the psychological pain. 

Foxx drives into him again, from just the right angle, and Ash bites his lower lip bloody to keep in a moan. He leans forward, licking and nibbling at Ash's neck while he's moving inside him. They have met for the first time maybe an hour prior, and yet Ash can picture the grin on his face, smug, delighted about causing the most anguish possible. 

“I want to keep you like this forever,” Foxx declares, and Ash waves it off as sex-stupid babbling; men have been making the strangest kinds of promises to him while they were balls deep inside him, always forgotten as soon as they've had their climax and climbed from his bed. “We could rule the world together, you and me, make mankind our servant.” 

Ash doesn't bother to call him out on that nonsense, can't, the breath punched out of him by another deep shove, another well-aimed brush against his prostrate that leaves him gasping. He's coming; orgasm washes through him, sudden and surreal and all-compassing. The sharp pain at his neck is almost an afterthought, discarded as unimportant among the ecstatic pleasure that's sloshing in his veins. 

He's distantly aware that Foxx just _bit him_ , but it seems in character, oddly, for him to want to leave a lasting mark. A reminder. A token of ownership. 

***

Ash doesn't know how much time he spends curled up on the cold floor of that warehouse, a chill creeping into his bones despite the warm summer heat outside. Foxx hasn't bothered to redress him, nor clean him up, and he's itching all over. He can't do anything about it himself, hands still tied, pants still around his ankles, can't do anything else but intermittently struggle to remind himself that there's still some fight left in him, that he hasn't given up yet. He's exhausted, he's hurting, he wants to cry but can't, won't, refuses to give Foxx the additional satisfaction. His eyes are drooping, exhaustion taking its toll. 

He hears footsteps on the concrete, and adrenaline pitches him back into wakefulness, alert, but not fearful. Never fearful. He tries to roll over onto his back, a small and ridiculous attempt at delaying the next assault by mere minutes while he's forced back into a position that offers easy access. Foxx laughs. 

A gunshot ripples through the night, followed by a brief moment of searing pain and shock and surprise, and then Ash's world goes black. 

***

Awareness trickles back in to the sound of a blood-curling scream, his throat raw, and it takes Ash a moment to connect the dots and realize that he's the one doing the screaming. He's in agony, absolute agony, leaving no room for conscious thought. It feels like his very blood is on fire, every drop of it turned into liquid acid and burning a trail of destruction through his entire body with each heartbeat. He's breathing in wild pants. His lungs are seizing. 

He clams his mouth shut. Breathes slowly through his nose. Pain is an illusion; he's overcome it before, and he can do it again. Survival is always more important than any fit his body can throw at him. 

He distantly recalls that he's been shot, his last memory from before, feels around for the wound in his chest and comes up empty. He sits up, blinks down at himself in the dim early-morning light. His shirt is ripped in places, bloodied, and there's something that looks like a bullet hole, but the skin underneath is intact, unblemished, not even discolored from the bruises that he knows were there just hours ago. 

Maybe it was a bad dream. Must be – he'd be dead otherwise, shot in the heart at point-blank range. 

Figuring that one out is a problem for later, though. Ash sits up and takes stock of his surroundings: he's alone, haphazardly dressed, unbound. Foxx is nowhere to be seen, but yelling and gunfire from other parts of the building indicate that he's not been entirely abandoned. He hopes against hope that the ruckus was caused by his allies, that they're here to rescue him, and the relief that he can face them with his dignity intact, not tied up, naked from the waist down and wearing the evidence of Foxx's rape, gives him the energy he needs to quiet the rest of his aching body and push himself to his feet. He breaks into a run, heading towards the noise. 

A guard steps into his way in the doorway, and, lacking any weapons, Ash reaches for the barrel of rifle he's carrying, tugs, and rams it into the guard's face. The smell of fresh blood fills the air, and the guy sinks to his knees. Barely taking the time to look back at the damage he's caused, Ash takes the rifle, cocks it, and makes his way further down the hall. Instinct takes over – he aims, he shoots, he continues on his way with single-minded determination. 

Cain and Sing are the first to find him, and he hears Eiji's voice too. He grumbles as to why they allowed him along, it's too dangerous, are they mad, but he also knows Eiji's stubbornness. Some of the tension falls from him at seeing Eiji's face, outside in the sun, seeing him whole and healthy, and he focuses on that and that alone until Cain announces that they've cleared the warehouse and that Foxx and his remaining men have fled. 

Ash's skin is crawling, in the metaphorical as well as in the physical sense, itching almost like a constant low sunburn. Cain reaches for him and Ash bats his hand away, trembling – in shock, in surprise, in pain. Then Eiji is there, hugging him, and in that very moment, nothing else in the world matters at all. 

***

He sleeps in fits and starts the following night, never deep enough to slip into the inevitable nightmares. Eiji's presence by his side, warm body pressed to Ash's chest in a lose embrace, helps ground him. It's still a new feeling, and still one that stuns him, to have met someone who can get as close as he wants, can hug and touch him without ever triggering his fight-or-flight responses. 

And who can read his moods even when asleep. Eiji stirs in his arms, rubs his eyes, blinks up at him. “What's wrong, Ash?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep. “Are you okay?” Just as soon as he's uttered the question, he grimaces, shakes his head a little. “Sorry. Of course you're not.” He reaches out, gently touching Ash's cheek. “Anything I can do to help?” 

Ash leans in to bring their lips together. It's not the first time – not even after their _kiss_ in prison – and after a moment of stillness, of hesitation, Eiji goes along. He trusts Ash, he's said, trusts him to know what's okay and what isn't, what he needs and what would make him worse. As such, he keeps his hands where they are, chastely pressed to Ash's chest, even as Ash's hands go wandering. Ash touches him wherever he may reach; his arms, his shoulders, and back, lower to the dip of his hip bones, covered by the fabric of his boxer shorts. He nestles his knee between Eiji's legs to feel the erection building there, and even that doesn't cause him unease. The kiss turns heated – a promise Ash isn't yet ready to fulfill, not that, maybe not for a while, but the possibility is there. They could. They might, at a later date, and it won't be anything like all the abuse Ash has endured. It will be gentle. Quiet. Good. 

He breaks away to nestle into the crook of Eiji's neck, doesn't think about it at first, really, going along with his desires, until he finds himself licking at the skin there in a way that mirrors what Foxx did to him the other day. His senses are filled with Eiji's smell, and the sound of blood, of a steady but elevated heartbeat, rushes in his ears. He somehow knows that it's Eiji's, not his own, and that shouldn't be possible. Yet it spurs a hunger in him that he's never felt, and he can just about picture himself, teeth breaking skin, tasting the blood that trickles out of the wound, tasting Eiji – 

Ash pulls away with a start, pushes Eiji away so they're at arms length. He feels sick, actually nauseous. He doesn't understand. He's distantly aware that Eiji's sitting up, hovering over him but not daring to touch, and he looks up, shaking his head. “I don't know. Foxx. He... What he did to me...” 

Eiji shushes him, now finally cupping Ash's face in a way that's so incredibly, unfathomably gentle and comforting. “It's okay. We can stop any time you want, you know that. Always.” 

He leans in and presses a kiss to Ash's temple and then lies down again, just within reach, waiting for Ash to pull him back into his arms. Ash does, selfishly, and doesn't elaborate, lets him think that this is about the rape. He doesn't have the words to tell him otherwise, anyway, can't explain, doesn't understand. 

*** 

Ash crawls out of bed before sunrise, careful not to rouse Eiji again. He tiptoes through the safehouse; no one can know where he's going, much less why. He takes his gun and a knife and walks out onto the streets, the city still dipped in relative darkness. That's the only thing he ever really misses about Cape Cod, aside from the ocean: New York nights are this half-formed creature, always illuminated by unnatural light. Back in the countryside, the only source of light available were the stars, and on the nights when they were obscured by clouds the darkness was absolute, impenetrable. 

He's got some questions, and there's only one person who can answer them. He feels like the protagonist of a modern arts installment, an urban fantasy piece, running around for his captor, his tormentor, on a quest to find confirmation of the dark curse that has been cast on him. The bite from a villain. A sudden allergy to sunlight. The taste of iron on his tongue, like a diffuse hunger, ever since he heard the rush of blood in Eiji's veins. 

They have no new intel on Foxx's whereabouts, but it's like Ash's feet are steered by an unknown force. He takes a subway train, then another, and walks with absolute certainty through an area of the city he's hardly ever been before. The building looks innocuous from the outside, the kind of property Golzine would find a business partner in want of a quiet place to lick their wounds. Nothing would hint at its criminal occupants, except for the guard by the door, in a neighborhood that's not cheap but also not actually expensive enough to warrant such a measure of security from everyone, or even the majority. 

The guard steps away once he sees Ash's face in the warm light of the single-bulb lamp in the entryway. He points up the stairs, his face telling only of boredom, no other emotion evident in his expression. “The boss has been waiting for you. Come on in.” 

Ash frowns, but takes the invitation. Two more guards merely step out of his way and point him in the right direction, and then he's face to face with Foxx again. The latter is standing behind a large kitchen island, all sleep black and stainless steel, and busy chopping vegetables with a small cutting knife. 

Eyeing the knife with suspicion, Ash steps into the room. “You did something to me, when you bit me in the warehouse.” 

Foxx sets the knife aside and glances up lazily. “Took you a bit longer than I thought, showing up here. I expected you by early evening, not around sunrise. It'll make your walk home a little uncomfortable.” 

There's more than one way to interpret that – a warning, a threat – but instead Ash shudders with the memory of how direct sunlight made his skin itch the other day. Hand on the gun that's sitting at his hip, shoved down the waistband of his jeans, Ash walks up to the kitchen island. “What did you _do_?” He sneers. “Tell me.” 

“You're a smart boy.” Foxx grins, baring a pair of fangs like he's the count in a cheap b-movie Dracula adaption. “Surely you've worked it out by now.” 

Ash vaults onto the kitchen island, dimly aware that he shouldn't have been able to do that with such ease, and pulls the gun out, aiming it at Foxx's heart. “Bullshit. Tell me what kind of game you're playing.” 

Head cocked to the side, fangs still extended, Foxx watches him like he's a particularly dense pupil. He tsks and yells a Slavic-sounding name, quickly followed by footsteps from the hallway. A soldier hurries into the room, eyes flitting back and forth between Ash and his boss, but he obeys when Foxx signals him to come closer. Once he's within arm's reach, Foxx picks up the knife in a move that's lightning-fast– impossibly, inhumanly fast – and slits the mans throat. The sharp smell of blood fills the room, quickening Ash's heartbeat to the point of stealing his breath away. Foxx shoves the man's corpse at Ash, who catches it on sheer instinct, sinks his teeth into the blood-smeared neck wound and starts sucking. 

Sucking _blood_ from a still-warm corpse.

The man's heart is still beating, weakly, and Ash can feel that as he drinks from him in desperate gulps, like he's starved and parched at the same time and this is his only salvation, the only thing ensuring his survival, sating a hunger he hadn't even noticed, hasn't been able to process before. It's a couple long minutes before he comes back to himself, pushes the corpse away with disgust, and wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He reels around, gun pointed at Foxx again, but his hand is trembling. He can't. He couldn't. He won't. Something is holding him back, making it impossible to take his due revenge on Foxx, for the rape, for... whatever this is, because it can't be what it looks like. Ash puts the gun away, glances around the room like a caged animal. 

Foxx looks delighted. “Such a quick learner. I knew you'd be a natural.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Ash rages. He needs... he needs some space. Time to think. Time away from Foxx and this strange new pull that makes it impossible to kill him given the chance. He turns and breaks into a run, and Foxx's laughter follows him down the hallway, keeps ringing in his ears the whole way home. 

*** 

He cleans himself up in a public washroom because showing up at the safehouse with drying blood all over his face would prompt too many questions. He swings by a deli after that, jacket drawn tightly round himself to hide the bloodstains, and buys a bunch of breakfast goods even though he's not hungry, stomach roiling with nausea at the sight of food. 

No one questions him where he was, upon his return. No one holds him up on the way to the bathroom, or when he excuses himself for a clothes change. He burns the bloodstained shirt and for a few hours, hidden away in the basement of their safehouse, everything's almost back to normal – or whatever normal means for them. 

***

Ash knows he's butchering the words that Eiji makes him parrot in Japanese, the sounds foreign and strange for his westerner tongue. He also knows that he won't follow Eiji to Japan – it was a bad idea before, but now it's become completely impossible. New York, that's his home, the place he knows like the back of his hand. Here, he can become invisible. But Japan? Eiji's small-city home? Too dangerous, for Eiji, for the people around him. He's not even afraid that Eiji will find out; he's afraid of the creature he might become, driven by hunger and bloodlust, a real monster, a threat to everyone around him. 

The pretense is nice, though, for the moment. Pretending it's still a possibility, right now, makes him feel human. And of course it can't last. 

Shouted warnings and gunfire, the constant soundtrack to this life Ash leads, interrupt their lesson. They're too far from the ruckus for him to understand what's being shouted, and so he just makes Eiji tuck beside him and heads for the nearest exit. It's a gamble; this place has a main door and a backdoor, and it's fifty-fifty as to where their enemies entered. Ash raises his gun, listening closely for any noise that echos through the dark hallway. Too closely – he hears heartbeats, hears people breathing, hears too much for him to distinguish important information from white noise. That's how they get the better of him: two remnants from Shorter's gang, now under the the thumb of the Lees, blocking their way forward. One grabs Eiji by the wrist, pulls him away from Ash. The other pulls a knife and waves it at Ash, grinning like a hyena. 

Ash doesn't care for equal arms, the unfairness in a fight between a gun and a knife. Two bullets, to his hand and to his chest, and the grinning guy lies bleeding on the floor. The stench of warm blood fills Ash's nostrils at once, and it's so, so hard to refocus his attention on Eiji and his captor. 

Eiji's heartbeat has gone staccato with fear, and it drums in Ash's ears as he reels around to aim at the gang kid that's trying to drag him away. Ash aims again, pulls the trigger and – 

Nothing happens. It's empty. He curses himself for that lapse, for not counting bullets or packing additional ammo, but lamenting that is a useless distraction. He dives for the knife that the other kid held, shirks away from an attack by Eiji's captor. Once the knife is in his hands, he reels forward, yet all he manages is a long, deep gash down the length of the guy's upper arm. 

It bleeds heavily, and Ash can all but feel the blood flow towards the wound, gushing out between the guy's fingers as he presses his palm to the cut. A seasoned vampire might have withstood the temptation, one with discipline and training, but Ash is neither. He's a newborn who only had one taste of human blood, and he wants more. He needs more. In a move that's faster than he himself is able to comprehend quite yet, he pushes the guy against the wall, twisting his bleeding arm to wrench the knife from his hand, and sinks his teeth into the guy's shoulder. He drinks without restraint, and by the time he comes back to himself, there's nothing left but the guy's lifeless corpse, sinking to the ground in an ungainly heap when Ash steps away from him. 

Eiji is staring at him with wide eyes, but doesn't back away. He whispers Ash's name, holds out his hand and, impossibly, gives him a smile so brilliant and full of trust that it makes Ash's heart miss a beat. 

Then there's another gunshot and Eiji's shirt blooms red.


	2. Chapter 2

A stroll through the back-alleys of Chinatown always leaves Eiji aching. Well, every visit to New York leaves him aching, in a way, but here he's closer to his grief for a multitude of reasons. That fact doesn't keep him from returning, of course. And it's not all pain; Sing still lives here, too, and they've grown closer over the years. 

This is his last visit. Not because he won't return to New York, but because the next time he travels here from Japan, he won't go back. He's filed he paperwork. He's told everyone. He's migrating, making New York his permanent home. 

Eiji keeps wandering, confident he'll make his way back to Sing's place no matter how far away his stroll takes him. The streets change around him – Tribeca, if he's not mistaken. He takes a moment to properly reorient himself, and then takes off in the direction of the river bank. It's past sunrise, and he likes the view across the river at night. He finds himself an empty bench, sits down and pulls a book from his bag – a poetry collection, in English. 

Later, he can't be certain what about the man in the dark coat drew his gaze. Maybe it was instinct, longing, subconscious recognition, or simply a flash of blonde hair that always makes his breath catch in his throat after all these years. 

Whatever the reason, he closes his book and puts it away, and rises to step into the man's path. The name falls from his lips without permission, a mere whisper, low enough that most people wouldn't even hear. But Ash does; Eiji knows that Ash's senses haven't been subject to human limitations in a long time now. Jade-green eyes catch Eiji's own, and time stretches around them as they stare at each other. Ash's mouth is slightly open, like he's sucking in a breath in surprise. His hair is shorter now, tugged behind his ears. He's filled out a little, lithe muscle from back then now padded a bit more raw strength. His face still looks the same, and of course, it would, as an immortal creature frozen in the very instant of its death. 

Ash looks around hectically, conflicting emotions sweeping through his expression. But Eiji won't let him slip back into the crowd, reaches out and takes his hand. “Just tonight,” he says, doesn't care that it sounds like a plea, desperate, as if his world might shatter should Ash refuse him. “Please. I'll let you go after that, but let me have tonight. Let us have tonight.”

The seconds tick by endlessly. The noise of the city, the bustle of activity around them, it all fades out of focus, suspended in a single moment. And then Ash nods, his hand squeezing Eiji's, and without a word he tugs Eiji along towards an as yet unknown destination. But Eiji follows; of course he does, he'd follow Ash anywhere. 

***

The motel offers rooms by the hour. No one asks for ID at the front desk. The rooms are dimly lit and stocked with lube and condoms in a basket on the nightstand, with a less than charming note beside it saying that an assortment of _affordable_ toys can be bought from a store in the basement. The bed looks comfortable enough, however, and Eiji isn't even sure if Ash brought them here for... that. They could talk, or just lay down and hold each other through the night like they used to in the past. He doesn't have expectations. He's wished for this moment for so long and all that he's ever wanted was to see Ash again, confirm that he's still around somewhere. That he's not dead. That there's a chance for them, however slim. 

“You were supposed to go back to Japan,” Ash says once they're sitting on the bed, side by side, and his voice sounds different than it does in Eiji's memory – deeper, rougher. Like he's more partial to staying silent, now, doesn't use it as often. 

Eiji juts his chin out in defiance. “I did. But I came back.” 

_To look for you_ goes unsaid, but if the frown that falls over Ash's face is any indication, he still heard it just fine. Eiji won't tell him about the migration. That might scare him off. It might sound like Eiji's laying a claim, or making a demand, when tonight should be weightless. 

Ash looks like he might argue, revive an old argument between them, but in the end he merely shakes his head and leans over to bring their lips together. Eiji sighs into the kiss, melts into Ash's arms, and all of a sudden, it's like no time has passed between them at all. Whatever else has might have changed, Ash still tastes the same. The weight of his arms around Eiji's body as he pulls him closer is still the same. The way they navigate each other on instinct alone is still the same. 

Very gently, never breaking the kiss for longer than necessary, Ash pushes Eiji to lie down on the bed. Eiji parts his legs to make room for him, to signal which way he wants this to go, and Ash breaks away to smile at him. 

“Still so eager,” he says, and Eiji feels himself blushing. Ash doesn't grant him the time to pose a complaint, though, kissing a line down his jaw, his neck. He crawls further down and pushes Eiji's T-shirt up, exposing his stomach, peppering that with kisses as well. Eiji closes his eyes. He's hard, straining against his jeans, and he hisses in surprise when he feels Ash nuzzle against the denim covering his erection. 

“Only if you wa– “ he starts, but Ash cuts him off by pressing his palm against the base of Eiji's clothed dick. 

“I'm good,” he says, sounding vaguely amused. “It's been a long time, Eiji.” 

His tone is wistful when he says that, and a little sad. Eiji's heart seizes in his chest – with want, with old grief, with uncertainty. _Just tonight_ he'd said, and now he's wondering if it's going to hurt all the more in the morning, ripping open a wound that never healed but might have at least started to scab over somewhat. 

Then Ash unzips Eiji's jeans and blows at the wet spot at the tip of his dick, now only covered by the dampened fabric of his boxers, and all those maudlin thoughts flee from his mind. Ash tugs at his legwear, and Eiji lifts his hips so he can get rid of both the jeans and the boxers, so that he's laid out before Ash with his legs spread, his hard cock straining up against his stomach. Ash leans in and licks around the tip, making Eiji moan, and glances up with a grin on his face. His lips close around the glands, tongue teasing the underside. He swallows Eiji down with seemingly little effort, and Eiji makes the conscious decision not to think about how often he must have done that before, to how many men, from how young an age. Those sick perverts don't get to taint what they're doing here tonight – that belongs to the two of them, and the two of them alone. 

His orgasm overwhelms him without warning and he only manages to reach down and pat at Ash's shoulder moments before the pleasure explodes and he comes, hard and seemingly forever. Ash swallows around him, then its up and licks his lips, and Eiji pulls him up for a kiss, desperate to taste himself on Ash's tongue. 

They undress after that, the initial urgency sated, and Ash carefully lays Eiji out against the soft, padded headboard. He picks lube and a condom from the basket on the nightstand, slicks up his fingers, and opens Eiji up slowly, very slowly, almost bringing him to the edge again with nothing else than an occasional tease to his prostrate. There's nothing on Eiji's mind but the smell and taste of him when he lines up, finally, and pushes inside with great care. He leans in to mouth at Eiji's neck and Eiji wraps his arms around him to keep him close, moaning on every thrust. 

The hint of teeth at his skin only turns him on more. He doesn't think about what what else that could mean, at first, about Ash's fangs and the bite and a life together forever, but eventually the idea sneaks into his mind. He arches up, meeting Ash's thrusts, and it's only a whisper. 

“Yes, Ash, please,” Eiji breathes out. “Do it, come on, I want it, I want to be with you.” 

His breath catches when Ash's teeth do indeed break skin. He holds very still in anticipation, his entire being zeroing in on the slight burn of the fresh bite wound at his neck, and he only notices with a slight delay that Ash has stopped moving too, in him, above him. 

Ash rears up, pulls out of Eiji's body, and flees to the other end of the room with a speed that leaves Eiji dizzy. One second, Ash is everywhere, and the next he's alone on the bed. 

“No,” Ash mumbles, on repeat, in an endless loop. His eyes are glazed over with unshed tears, and his breathing has dissolved into panicked, irregular pants. “No, no, no. _No._ ” 

Eiji stares at him, confused, afraid, desperate. “I'm sorry,” he babbles. “What did I do, I'm sorry, Ash, please, come back. It's okay. I want it. I meant that. Ash. Ash, come here.” 

And he does, hops back onto the bed as quickly as he fled from it, but only to press two fingers to a spot on Eiji's neck and catch him as he drifts into unconsciousness. 

***

It's bright morning when Eiji wakes. He's still on a bed, but a quick look around the room tells him it's in a very different place. There's no basket on the nightstand, but instead a stack of magazines and some mint chocolate. Low music plays on a radio somewhere. Ash is nowhere to be seen. 

He's gone, and he won't be back. Their one chance, and Eiji spooked him, wanted too much too fast. They won't see each other again, he's completely sure. Ash will avoid him for the rest of his mortal life. 

Eiji rolls over, hugging the soft and expensive pillow, and cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [dreamwidth](https://geckoholic.dreamwidth.org/), [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


End file.
